


Sherlock Through the Ages

by angelsong87



Series: Sherlock and Molly, beginnings and beyond. [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-09-27 06:41:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9980999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsong87/pseuds/angelsong87
Summary: Its a kidlock!!!tracking Sherlock from childhood to adulthood, every twist and turn, every major event, everything that led up to the man we met in 2009 in A Study In Pink.





	1. All lives end, all Hearts are Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Prologue*  
> Mycroft Holmes takes stock in the new changes to his family, and the effect they are having on his baby brother.

Mycroft Holmes was fat. The baby weight that he never really shed in his youth was well established by his current age of 15. His parents, wonderfully simple as they are, had begun to notice his husky frame and take precautions.

 

This meant no more cake and sweeties for Mycroft. His younger brother Sherlock relished the chance to rub this in at every opportunity. Oh, how he loathed his brother at times. But he could hardly blame him....

 

The restrictions of sugar in his general diet had incensed Mycroft to become more inventive, and secretive. He created a game out of spiriting away lollies and biscuits without notice. He kept hoping he would get caught, but he never did. Mycroft's hidey hole was too good.

 

He had discovered it during his explorations of their new family home. with Musgrave Hall damaged beyond repair, they had moved to a small cottage in the south of England. The house was dreadfully dull, but there was a spot where, if Mycroft stood just so, he would be invisible to prying eyes. It was a small covered corner of the pantry, which worked out doubly well for Mycroft. From this spot, he simply had to reach up and grab a meaty handful of biscuits.

 

It was there that he found himself on an unseasonably warm Sunday afternoon. Had he resisted the temptation for treats, he never would have overheard his parents as they came into the room.

 

"He's reading again." Said his mother.

 

"What's that dear?" Replied his father.

 

"Sherlock. He's sitting out there with an algebra textbook." Mrs Holmes said worryingly.

 

"I thought you'd be happy with him taking an interest in mathematics. I'd say he's taking after you." 

 

Quiet as a mouse, Mycroft crept forward to the door of the pantry to spy his parents.

 

Mrs Holmes was by the sink, her fingers pinching at her temples. Mr Holmes, was resting on the bench, lazily peeling a banana. "Yesterday it was a historical assessment on ancient Mesopotamia. I just don't know what to do anymore Siger." She replied. "The boy is not coping."

 

Mycroft's father pulled his wife into his arms. "There now, I know. You are doing the best you can." He said in comfort.

 

Violet Holmes let a tear fall. "I thought it was bad when he was crying, but this? He's so cold, he barely eats or sleeps anymore. I just want my babies back."

 

"I know, my love. It's a mess isn't it." Said Mr Holmes hugging her close.

 

From his secret vantage point Mycroft went cold, the weight of his guilt sending shivers down his spine. He didn't mean to make Sherlock indifferent, he only wanted him to stop.

 

For weeks after their ancestral home was destroyed -after She was taken away- the younger Holmes had cried. Not the tears of a spoiled child trying to illicit at response. No, this boy cried tears of grief for a childhood brutally snatched from him far too early. Finally, Mycroft couldn't take any more, so he told his brother a story. The story of another little boy, a strong boy. This boy knew the value of intelligence, and the disadvantage of emotions. Sherlock had listened with rapt attention, taking in every word and applying it to himself. Mycroft literally watched as Sherlock locked himself away from the world and all the pain it had on offer. By then it was too late, and it was Mycroft's fault. 

 

He could feel the palms of his hands burning and he looked down to find that he had clutched his fists so tight, his nails had sliced into his skin, leaving crescent shaped cuts, blood slowly dripping out. He looked around for some paper towel to mop up the thick liquid. 

 

He wasn't hungry anymore but he couldn't risk leaving his cubby with his parents a mere foot away.

 

"Should we send him to someone?" Violet asked.

 

"If you think it might help." Siger replied, caressing her back. "It might be good for you too, my love." He added softly.

 

She sniffed. "Oh, I'll be fine. Rupert says she's getting better. She might come home one day."

 

"Does he now? That brother of yours has all the answers." Said Mr Holmes, sarcasm coloring his tone.

 

Violet pulled away to stare down her husband. "He has our daughter Siger, because we couldn't help her, that's what he has!" She snapped.

 

Siger's face fell and he pulled her in to his embrace. Violet was crying in earnest now. "I know love, I know. Come now, let’s go for a walk." Keeping his arms around her shoulder Mr Holmes walked his wife outside.

 

Mycroft crept out of his hideout, tears streaming silently down his cheeks. He was mourning too, mourning the loss of his funny little family. Life it seems would never be the same again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a short chapter to get me started, I'm very excited to see what I can make of this story. I'm going to do a similar one for Molly I think, and then have their stories combine when they meet. let me know what you think.


	2. Blood and Cigarettes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft gets a roommate.

Mycroft Holmes had a bit of a spring to his step as he walked through the doors of his London townhouse. He had been promoted, again. Though he was only in his second year of university Mycroft was quickly rising through the ranks of the British government.

He had started as one usually does, in the mail room at sixteen. If only to earn some extra pocket money at the time. Three years on he was simultaneously running his own division whilst studying a double diploma in business and politics. He was on the fast track to becoming the world’s youngest member for parliament, if he chose to. Mycroft had always felt more comfortable behind the scenes running the operations than in the public eye.

He stopped in his foyer abruptly. There was a scent of dirt and sweat in the air, as well as the subtle, but unmistakable copper aroma of blood. Mycroft adjusted his grip on the umbrella he was holding, lamenting in the fact that he didn't have a better weapon. I really must do something about that, he thought to himself as he took a cautious step into the room.

He glanced at the floor and spotted the muddy outline of a size 10 trainer. After taking an educated guess about who he would find inside, Mycroft relaxed, stopping to hang his coat and brolly on the hooks. 

Inside the room, sitting stoically on the bottom step was Sherlock Holmes. "Run away again have we?" Mycroft asked nonchalantly.

"Not at all, I simply thought it would be better to clean up before returning home." Came the reply.

"Oh yes," said Mycroft taking in the young boy's bleeding eyebrows and split lip. "I see you're still enjoying some roughhousing with the locals."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I can't help it if they're idiots." 

"True little brother, but it's not always wise to point it out." He sighed. "Come along, let’s get you cleaned up."

The walked down the hall to Mycroft's reasonably sized kitchen. Once under the lights the older Holmes assessed the damage to his brother. He tutted, taking in the obviously sprained wrist, dislocated index finger, and bruising around the eye. "Raise your arms and breath in." He commanded looking for signs of broken ribs. Sherlock displayed some discomfort, but it looked most likely that he had severe bruising only. Mycroft couldn't miss the footprint on his brother's shirt that proved he had been kicked, more than once while he was already on the ground. "You really mustn't let them beat you like this brother mine, it sets a bad precedent. Though, by the state of your hand, you must have gotten some hits in yourself."

"I would have won, but his friends blindsided me. Very unsportsmanlike." Replied Sherlock, wincing slightly as his brother applied some iodine to his eyebrow.

"Yes, well what can you expect from savages. You must remember to watch your flank." Mycroft chided.

Sherlock pouted at the scold. "It's no matter, they won't bother me again. I've been expelled... again."

"Yes, I know. The call came in this afternoon. congratulations brother mine, another school falls in your wake." Disappointment was heavy in the man's voice. "Did you at least learn something, during your brief time there?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Nothing I didn't already know. Honestly the curriculum was abysmal I struggled to remain awake most of the time." Sherlock agreed.

"Mm, or attended classes for that matter." Mycroft said sourly.

"For heaven’s sake Mycroft, I don't need a babysitter." Said Sherlock, irritated by his brother's constant need to check up on him.

"No? By the state of your face and clothing one would have to disagree." With his eyebrow cleaned and a butterfly clip over the wound Mycroft went on to deal with the lip. "Where do you disappear to brother? When you skip your classes."

"Nowhere." Answered Sherlock. Mycroft gave him a warning with his eyes. "Just around, I like to watch London, see how things work." He elaborated.

"Well, as enthralling as that sounds little brother, you must remember that you are only twelve years old. That's far too young to be wandering the streets alone." Said Mycroft wondering if his brother might be developing a death wish.

"Alone is what I have, alone protects me." Sherlock said softly.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Clearly." He had heard those words before, though Mycroft had only ever uttered them once, five years ago, while telling his baby brother a story about a strong little boy. "So, what now? Public school? You are very quickly running out of options."

"Oh, I don't know, I might take some online classes. I can't stand the idea of wasting my days in a classroom." Said the boy.

"Agreed, far to tedious." Mycroft replied nodding.

"I'll never understand why the education system expects the intelligent student to slow down to the pace of the idiot." Sherlock scoffed. "Baffling."

"Yes, well this has all been very interesting but online classes will not occupy you for long. How do you intend on filling your day brother dear? I'm sure mummy and daddy aren't just going to let you wander around London all the time." Mycroft asked. 

"No. And I can't stand the commute at any rate. Which is why, I suggested to move here with you. They were quite convinced my education would improve drastically." Sherlock said with a smirk.

Mycroft spluttered and reached for his cigarettes. "You did what?" He asked, pulling out a smoke and lighting it.

"Oh yeah." Said Sherlock grabbing his brothers now discarded packet and pulling out a cigarette for himself.  "They thought it was an excellent idea, of course, that does give them more free time to pursue their line dancing hobby."  

As the younger Holmes brought the lighter up to spark his smoke, Mycroft reached out and plucked the offending cigarette from his brother's mouth. "Do not smoke." 

Sherlock put the lighter back on the table. "That's a bit hypocritical don't you think?" He smirked.

"No, you are a child and I am an adult. I am entitled to make judgements on my own and your welfare. You are not." Mycroft countered.

The smirk turned into a full-fledged smile. "Exactly, brother dear. Enjoy your new-found guardianship. I'm off to bed." 

With that Sherlock stood up and walked out of the room to the bedrooms upstairs.

"Damn." Said Mycroft a small barely visible smile on his lips.

 

*****

 

It had taken less than a week for the two brothers to form some semblance of a routine. Though Mycroft had started the search for a housekeeper to mitigate the mess Sherlock left in his stead. The boy was like a walking cyclone, leaving devastation and destruction in his wake. But with Mycroft's constant working hours, and Sherlock's inability to rise before noon, they often went days without seeing each other.

This made it even more surprising to Mycroft when he awoke at his usual time of 5:30 and went downstairs to make his morning coffee. Sherlock was sitting at the table, a lukewarm tea perched by his elbow and the morning paper open. "Couldn't sleep?" He asked.

"Didn't try, have you seen this?" Asked Sherlock holding up a page of the paper.

Mycroft glanced down in interest. "The Carl Powers case, yes drowning, wasn't it?"

"No, he was murdered." He answered matter of factually.

The older Holmes sighed and picked up the paper. After quickly scanning it he was still at a loss to how his brother could make that connection. "And how did you come to that conclusion?"

"Oh, just a feeling." Sherlock cagily replied.

"You're not going to go off on one of your little games, are you? I'd hate to have to bail you out again." Said Mycroft folding the paper and picking up his cigarettes.

"No, and that was not my fault by the way. How was I to know the bag had guns in it?" Replied Sherlock pulling his own cigarettes out of his pocket.

 "I know you're an idiot brother mine but even you know better than to pick up a discarded bag from a bus stop." Mycroft frowned looking at his brother. "And where did you get those?" He asked gesturing at the now lit cigarette hanging from his little brother's mouth. 

Sherlock simply smiled and put the packet back in his pocket. "I was thinking about looking at a new school, maybe one in Greenwich. I'll check out the campus today."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Oh yes, Charlton Park, of course." 

"Nope." Replied Sherlock popping the p the way he did when he wanted to be particularly irritating. "Meridian."

Both eyebrows raised now in surprise, the older Holmes boy studied his brother closely. "A public school? A public primary school no less. Why the interest?" He asked.

"No reason in particular, I hear they have an excellent music program." Said Sherlock rising from his seat.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "Indeed? Well I guess I better call and set it up then."

"Thanks bro." Sherlock called as he left the room and made his way upstairs.

Mycroft made two calls that morning. The first to the principal of Meridian primary to inform him of his brother's desire to tour the campus. The second was to his assistant, a smart young man who serviced Mycroft as his eyes and ears to London. "Keep an eye on him, will you?"

 

**** 

 

It had been harder than Sherlock thought it would be, losing his minder at the school. He had finally managed it in the library by bumping into a weak shelf in the exact right spot to send all the books tumbling off it. As his minder bent down to pick them up, Sherlock silently slipped away.

It took him less than a minute to locate the pool and boy’s locker room, the real reason for his visit. This was where Carl Powers had died. It didn't make sense to Sherlock, how had a boy who was, even at the age of eleven, by all accounts a competitive swimmer, drowned? 

He glanced at his watch- two minutes before his minder would catch up with him, Mycroft had sent a good one this time, and Sherlock was enjoying the challenge. He studied the names on the lockers, Carl was from out of town, here just to compete, so he wouldn't have an established locker. Any with name tags could be eliminated. It would be a spare locker so it would have to be in the far-right corner of the room, this was the farthest away from the door and showers. He quickly stepped over to them. Carl was tall, so he would have taken a top locker if it was available. Sherlock eliminated the bottom lockers running his fingers along the top row. He was right handed, so he would naturally pick a locker on the right, he reasoned. His fingers came to rest on the last locker on the right. It had no lock on it. With a smile, Sherlock opened it, revealing the clothes and gym bag inside. He glanced at the label on the bag, confident that he already knew who's bag this was. His theory was confirmed, the contents of the locker belonged to Carl Powers.

Quickly he began to pull out the items, cataloguing them in his mind. School uniform, underwear, socks, belt, deodorant, some spare change. Something was missing. Sherlock frowned, trying to place it. His time was cut short when he felt a large hand clamp down on his shoulder. "Mr Holmes, I think you'd better come with me." Said his minder.

 

****

 

"Carl Powers? Really Sherlock..." said Mycroft shaking his head at his little brother.

He was seated in his office, the younger Holmes opposite him, with his minder standing behind him. "Thank you, Charles, that will be all." Mycroft dismissed.

The minder nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him. Sherlock was staring at his brother, his eyes ablaze with something Mycroft couldn't place. It was a look he had not seen in many years, not since her. "I am telling you Mycroft, it was murder, I don't know how, but it was." The younger Holmes argued. 

"This has really gone far enough, don't you think? You are getting yourself worked up." Mycroft soothing said.

Sherlock groaned. Think! He told himself, what was missing? Wallet? No, jacket? No... "shoes!"

"I beg your pardon?"

Sherlock broke into a grin. "There were no shoes in the locker! Where are the shoes Mycroft? Did they get up and walk away on their own?"

"His shoes..." said Mycroft despondently.

"Yes! Oh! This is good. I need to speak with the parents. Find out more data, were they expensive? Worth killing over?" He mused.

"ENOUGH!" Mycroft shouted, snapping Sherlock out of his revelry. "You will stop this idiocy right this instant and leave the Powers family alone."

Sherlock looked like he had been kicked, shrinking back in his chair away from his much larger brother. The image of the timid boy was enough to soften Mycroft's resolve. He sighed heavily. "I will inform the authorities to look for the shoes, and you dear brother will find a new school to attend. One with a curriculum that will keep your mind appropriately entertained."

Sherlock nodded sullenly, tears shining in his eyes, but remained silent. Mycroft tried to catch his eyes. "I know I can be hard sometimes but this is for your benefit, remember Redbeard?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay I got to add the Carl Powers story!!!!!! even at 12 years old Sherlock's powers of deduction are astute lol


	3. I'm not an addict I'm a mule.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is fourteen now and needs employment, where will he find suitable work?

Bored! Thought Sherlock as he stared at the slightly yellow cigarette stains on his ceiling from his vantage point on the bed. Not even smoking could cure the dull tedium he felt. 

"Why don't you get a job to entertain yourself with?" His brother had suggested.  

Sherlock smirked when he recalled the look on Geoff the butcher of Greek Street's face after had been there. The young Holmes thought he lasted quite well for the first few hours, but he had eventually given in to the temptation to scare the customers. In his defense, he could have never predicted sister Margaret's heart condition, nor her reaction to his frankly truthful analysis of the slaughtering procedure of the chicken breasts she attempted to purchase. In any case, a dead nun on the floor is bad for business, so Sherlock had to go.

Well, at least it killed some time, he thought laughing at his own joke. Mycroft was not pleased.

"When Mummy and Daddy asked me to look after you this is not what they had in mind." He said drolly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and cocked his head towards his brother. "What do you suggest?"

"You need a hobby, something that holds your interest," He suggested. "how is your studies going?" Sherlock was currently enrolled in online studies, owning to the many expulsions he had accumulated over the years.

"Fine, fine." Sherlock replied waving him off. "Of course, it would actually help if I had access to a lab." He added scowling. 

"You would have access, if you chose to go to classes." Mycroft reminded him.

"But classes are boring!" Sherlock groaned. "And they never let you play with any of the good chemicals anyway. I still don't see why you won't let me use the space in the basement, it's not like your home anyway."

Mycroft sighed, he hadn't realized how neglected his brother must be feeling. "I know your bored, and I know you want some company. But my work is-"

"Important. Yes, I'm aware. I don't need your company anyway." He said pulling a cigarette out of the pack on his nightstand and lighting it. 

"We discussed this brother mine. If you are going to smoke, you will do it outside." Said Mycroft coldly. 

Sherlock shot his brother a look and hopped off the bed. Going over to the window he opened it and leaned out dangerously. "There is that better?"  

Mycroft shook his head and walked away, leaving Sherlock to his thoughts.

When he was gone, Sherlock shut the window and the door before flopping back onto the bed. Bored! He thought, struggling to find the spot he had been laying comfortably in for the past few hours. Nope, that's not right.... not that either. "Grrr." He moaned sitting up in the bed and butting out the half-smoked cigarette.

He stomped over to his wardrobe and pulled out a hoodie, shoving it on roughly Sherlock walked out of the room and to the front of the townhouse. "I'm going out!" He called, leaving before he could get a response.

It was bitterly cold out, and he raised the hood on his jumper to help shield his face. I really must invest in a good coat, he thought as he started the long trudge into central London.

 

****

 

Sherlock found himself loitering in an alley next to a local drinking hole, just watching the general traffic as they wandered past. It was a game, observe and deduce the pedestrians that passed. Sometimes he followed someone to confirm his deductions, but today he was content to simply watch.  

He was taking a long draw on his cigarette when a couple young men walked into the alley laughing. Sherlock pressed his back further into the strong brick wall that he had been leaning on. The two men looked like they might be dangerous, potentially part of a drug cartel based on the expense of their street clothes. The taller of the men was wearing a thick puffy fleece lined coat that had real fox fur around the edges of the hood. A thick gold chain was just visible underneath. The other was similarly dressed with a pair of $300 jeans slung low on his hips. They both wore white trainers Sherlock had seen retailing for upwards of $600. Based on the bulge in the shorter man’s coat he was carrying a gun, it was safe to assume his associate was packing also. Sherlock felt his heart rate quicken at the proximity to danger.

"Alright, alright. What have we here?" Asked the taller man. Taking in the boy smoking by the wall. 

Sherlock said nothing, but brought his eyes up to meet the man.

"Well if it idnt a little laddie boy." Said the short one. "Alright then laddie. What do ya know?"

"Nufing." Sherlock replied adopting the men's abbreviated speech. "Just standin' here ain't I."

The taller man grinned tapping his friend on the chest with the back of his hand. "Got a tough boi 'ere don't we."

"Looks like it." Agreed his friend.

"Alright, gi's us a smoke then tough boi." The tall man said casually walking up to the boy.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and held up the pack. "Say please." He countered pulling the pack away as the man went to grab it.

The older man looked menacingly at Sherlock for a moment, before he broke into a grin. "Hey, you’re alright there boi, whacha name?"

"Sherlock." He replied.

"Sherlock?" Said the smaller man coming over to stand with his friend. "Kinda name is that then? You slummin' it?" 

"Just a name." Replied the boy.

"Nah, that's a rich boi name idint it?" Agreed the taller man. "You a rich boi?"

Sherlock glared at the man, putting as much malice in his eyes as he could. "No."

"Alright, alright." Replied the man holding up his hands in mock defense. "I was only askin'"

"So how bout that smoke?" Said the shorter man. Sherlock fixed his gaze on him but said nothing. The man rolled his eyes. "Please." He added.

Sherlock held out the packet to the man, who pulled out a couple of smokes and gave it back. "Ta." 

The taller man spoke. "The names Gil, this 'eres Alby," Sherlock nodded hello. "Ow old are you then kid?" 

Though he was only fourteen, Sherlock was tall and could easily pass for eighteen in the right lighting. Despite the lack of facial hair yet. So, he hedged his bets "sixteen." He replied raising his chin.

"Come 'ere a lot do ya?" Gil asked gesturing to the alley.

"Yeah what of it." Sherlock replied.

Gil tapped his friend again and tilted his head in Sherlock's direction. Alby pursed his lips and nodded. "Well Shezza, you see me 'n' Alby 'ere, we got a problem. Do you think you could 'elp us out?" Said Gil.

Sherlock cautiously glanced between the two men weighing up his options. They were too big to fight off, despite his excellent knowledge on close hand to hand combat, and then there was the gun. Even if he could incapacitate them both enough to get past them and run, there was no guarantee they wouldn't shoot him before he got away. Besides, their problem might be interesting. "Depends on what it is." He countered.

Gil laughed and clap the boy on the back. "You're a good kid. So, listen, Alby and me got a package to deliver to a bloke inside." He said pointing his thumb back at the pub. "But we got into a bit of a bifo in dere last week an got ourselves a littl' banned. Fink you could deliver it for us?" He reached into his coat and pulled out a small paper bag. "I'll giv you a tenner for it."

Sherlock sighed, it was a simple request. Confirming his suspicions that the men were in fact drug mules was a bit disappointing, he had hoped for something a little more interesting. Nevertheless, if he delivered the package he could be on his way. He reached out and took the small bag. "Who to?"

Alby grinned. "Bloke named Marco, 'e wears a gold chain round 'is neck and a green coat. Make sure 'e pays ya for it first."

Well, that won't be hard to spot, thought Sherlock internally shaking his head. He pushed past the men and walked back out to the street and into the pub. It took less than six seconds to spot the man they were talking about. He was sitting at the bar, his long greasy hair slicked back with far too much product. The green puffy coat was slung across the chair next to him. Sherlock casually walked up to him. "Alright Marco?" He asked, sitting down next to him.

"Fuck off kid." Marco replied. Now that he was closer Sherlock could see the slight tremor in his hand as he reached for his beer. He was coming down off something and obviously needed his next fix. 

"But I got summin' for ya, courtesy of Gil and Alby." He replied, watching the man’s interest perk up at the sound of the names.

"Oh yeah?" 

"Yep." He replied piping the p sarcastically. He reached into the pocket of his hoodie and took out the bag holding it out to him.

Marco snatched at the bag but his trembling hands were to slow for Sherlock. "Ah, cough up first." He said putting the bag back in his pocket.

Marco grumbled and pulled out some bank notes, shoving them at the boy. "'Ere, now give me the bag." He shot.

Sherlock smiled and handed him the bag. "Pleasure doing business with ya gov." Pocketing the money he turned and walked back out to the men outside. 

Gil clapped as he rounded the corner into the alley. "Look at that! Good lad." 

Sherlock walked over and held out the money. 

"That was good lad," Said Alby. He nudged his friend. "Fancy making some money?"

Sherlock smiled, looks like a have a job now after all brother dear. "What did you have in mind?"

 

****

 

Mycroft was waiting for him when he got home. 

Sherlock got in after eleven and found his brother seated at the dining table. "Sit down Sherlock." He said softly.

It was rare for Mycroft to use Sherlock's name, usually preferring the ridiculous terms of endearment to substitute sentiment, so Sherlock sat down without questioning him.

"You've had quite the evening, consorting with known drug dealers. Running around London doing drop offs for them." Mycroft said flatly.

Sherlock scowled, he thought he had lost his brother's tail hours ago.... apparently not. "Well you did tell me to seek employment." 

His brother's eyes shifted to his face with a cool sharpness. "That industry will only lead to pain and a shortened life expectancy."

"Relax Mycroft, I was perfectly safe. I just wanted to try it out." 

"Oh really, and how did you find the criminal class? Educational?" He sneered.

"Incredibly, they know things I could never have had the opportunity to learn in other ways." Supplied Sherlock.

"Yes, because learning how to cut cocaine is a skill everyone should have."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and lit a cigarette, drawing back on it deeply. "You shouldn't worry so much brother dear, I've never gotten myself into more trouble than I can handle." He boasted.

"The trouble you are getting into seems to be increasing at an exponential rate, if you are not careful Sherlock, you will find yourself requiring help. And when you do, I may not always be there to supply it."

Sherlock stretched his shoulders and neck before smiling at his brother. "Well, this has been fun. Let’s do it again sometime." He said standing and walking to the door. "I'm stuffed. Goodnight."

Mycroft sighed as he watched his brother walk away. There would be no changing his mind on this, Mycroft's only hope was that it did not end in disaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah brotherly love, ain't it grand?  
> I had a lot of fun writing this one, Sherlock really seems to love antagonizing his big brother.  
> The next chapter will be a little different, as Sherlock grows in the world he will start to explore new things.... Not everything will have such a good result. Stay tuned for some Angst!!!
> 
> Oh yeah I also keep forgetting to ask you all to follow me on Tumblr.... my Username is the-angelsong. I post my stories on there too so you can stay up to date on whats coming up. You can also give me some Prompts if you want to read something different.


	4. Down the Rabbit Hole We Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's dalliance with drugs has some unexpected results.

Mycroft paced back and forth down the short corridor adjacent to the staircase in his small London flat. Sherlock had been missing for almost twelve hours now.

Twelve hours without a single report into his brother's whereabouts. He clenched his jaw worryingly. He was going to have to call mummy, the thought twisted like a frozen knife in his chest. Suddenly the phone rang. Mycroft hurried over to answer. "Yes?" 

"Sir, we've found him." Came the voice in reply.

"Where is he?" He asked sharply.

There was a moment’s hesitation before the caller responded. "He's in a house in Smithfield."

"Give the directions to my driver I'm on the way." He said hanging up the phone and grabbing his coat. He stopped for a moment to look at the new umbrella Sherlock had given him for his birthday this year, it was more than it appeared. Hidden behind the functioning umbrella was a very keen blade, why Sherlock thought it necessary for his brother to have a weapon was beyond him. Nevertheless, he plucked it off the hook and headed out to the awaiting car.

As they took off Mycroft thoughtfully chewed the inside of his cheek, wondering what scene he would find his brother in this time. He had over the last few years, pulled his brother from a number of unseemly situations. From the watch house, (that had been a wonderful phone call with the parents) from the street, there was concerns that his brother had started using the drugs he was peddling, but so far that was unsubstantiated.

"What have you done." He said softly.

Whatever the situation, it would be his fault. Mycroft knew he needed to support his little brother more, but rather than encourage the frankly healthy obsession with crime solving, he had sneered and belittled his brother for it. He had been so wrapped up in his own self-importance, that he hadn't seen the activity for what it was. A way to keep Sherlock's mind busy. His brother tried hard to suppress his emotions, always trying to be the strong little boy in the story, but Mycroft saw all the feelings sitting there under the surface.

When he arrived, he was greeted by the flashing red and blue lights of an ambulance. If his stomach was clenched in worry before he found Sherlock, then upon seeing him it was converted into a black hole, a tiny lump inside him set to pull in everything around it. His brother was grey, not the sickly colour of someone under the weather. No, he was as grey as the bodies on the slabs at the mortuary.

Sherlock was being carted out of the house on a gurney. An oxygen mask covered most of his face, which Mycroft took as a blessing. He took a deep breath and walked briskly over to the EMT who was attending to his brother.

"How is he?" Mycroft asked softly.

She turned to face him. "He's stabilized for now." She replied encouragingly.

The slightly strained downturn of her eyes and the almost invisible grimace told Mycroft the truth. He cleared his throat nodding. "Where are you taking him?" 

"St Barts, it's the closest. Would you like to ride with us?" She asked in that same sympathetic tone that reminded Mycroft of his many failures.

"No, I'm sure you don't need me getting in the way, I will follow along behind you." He said.

She nodded before jumping in the ambulance. "Let’s go!" She called to the driver, closing the heavy doors.

He stood watching them go, wondering if that was the last time he saw his little brother alive.

Biting the inside of his cheek Mycroft put his mind to the task at hand and strode confidently into the squalid little house. There was graffiti over almost every surface and an overpowering smell of feces permeated from the edges. He held his breath and walked up the stairs.

When he reached the second floor he walked down the hall where a few of his men were waiting. "This is where you found him?" He asked.

"Yes sir, he was in that cot over there." Replied the man pointing to a small dirty mattress in the room where the chief of the Sherlock commission was standing.

Mycroft walked over and looked around. There was a needle on the floor next to a burnt spoon and a candle. Heroine most likely, he deduced. "What did he take?" He asked the man in charge of watching his brother.

"We're not sure sir." Stuttered the man.

Mycroft turned his cold stare on the young man. "Well, is there anyone else here? Some smackheads you could interview to find out?"

The man blinked stupidly and Mycroft fought the urge to pull out the concealed blade in his umbrella and run him through. "Of of course sir right away!" Said the man, calling over some of his subordinate and relaying Mycroft's request.

As the men turned to leave Mycroft spoke up. "Andrews, you are of course fired." 

"Sir?" Asked the man with a look of confusion on his face.

"Twelve hours Andrews, you lost him for twelve hours, and by the look of this place and my brother's," he lifted his lips in a disgusted grimace, "paraphernalia. This was not the first time he has done this. You are obviously incompetent and therefore are relieved of your role." He finished. He was seething inside, but externally he sounded bored, and slightly disappointed. 

"Yes sir." Said Andrews, his head dropping as he turned to leave.

"Oh, and Andrews?" Mycroft waited till the man turned back and caught his eyes. "If my brother dies tonight..." he let all the rage he was feeling flood his eyes and face. "... run."

 

****

_"Come on Sherlock!" Called a young boy, he couldn't see him. "Come on!" It called again.  
_

_He was running now, as fast as his little legs could take him. He was six years old, running through the tall grass and grave stones...... they looked strange but he couldn't read them. Every time he tried to focus on them the world started spinning. He could hear someone singing in the background but he couldn't make out the words...... he could never hear them.  
_

_"Find me Sherlock!" Called the boy._

_"Where are you?" He called back._

_"Lost."_

_He ran so hard he felt like his lungs were full of rocks and he couldn't breathe. His heart pounded in his chest._

_"I can't find you!" Called Sherlock. "Tell me where you are?"_

_"I that am lost, oh, who will find me? Deep down below the old beech tree." Sang the voice._

_"What does that mean?" He called._

_The voice made no reply. instead the ground shifted underneath him to form a hole, and he was falling. Falling faster and faster into oblivion..._

 

The first thing Sherlock was aware of when he regained consciousness was a rhythmic beeping noise... _a heart monitor? Right, so, Hospital then,_ he thought to himself. When he opened his eyes his irises were blinded by the bright white lighting, he blinked trying to bring the world back into focus. When his vision finally cleared, he saw his brother sitting next to the bed with an expression so sour Sherlock almost checked his hand for lemons.

"Hey bro, what's up?" Sherlock said, his voice cracking. "Can I have some water? I have the worst case of cotton mouth." He joked.

Mycroft's sour look deepened but he reached over for a glass of water that was sitting on the tray table. Handing it to his brother he asked. "So, were you deliberately being foolish or do I need to worry?"

Sherlock gulped down the liquid but it didn't come close to quenching his dry throat. "It was an experiment." He explained.

Mycroft scoffed. "And what did you ascertain from this experiment?" He spat the last word with malice. "Perhaps that you are in fact mortal after all? Or was this another game?"

"I was only trying to establish my limits."

"Your limits? You almost died.... had I not found you, you surely would have." Said Mycroft.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Well, wouldn't want to make that call to the parents would we."

"Sherlock this is not a joke!" Cried Mycroft loudly. "What on earth!" He caught himself shouting and lowered his voice to a reasonable volume. "What possessed you to stick a needle in your arm?"

"I was bored." Shrugged Sherlock. "Besides, I knew your goons would find me, they always do."

Mycroft blinked in surprise. "A cry for attention? Really?"

Sherlock looked horrified. "God no, not for you. I just wanted to mix thing up a bit." A flash of the song caused him to flinch, it was unusual for the dream to follow him out of the rabbit hole.

Mycroft caught the flinch and catalogued it. "By mix it up I assume you mean substances? What did you take?"

"Oh, I don't know, bit of this, bit of that." Said Sherlock nonchalantly. "Why do you want a list?" He joked.

"Yes." Said Mycroft handing him a pen and paper. "This can never happen again Sherlock, never. But if it does, you will have a list... if I am to find you dead in some crack den I would like to know what exactly killed you." He said coldly.

Sherlock stared his brother down, but he could see that Mycroft's resolve would not falter. "Fine, I promise to always write a list how's that?" He said snatching the paper and scrawling down the surprisingly long list of chemicals that had been coursing through his veins only hours ago.

"Thank you." Said Mycroft plucking the finished list from his hands. The eyebrow raise when he saw what was on the paper was unavoidable.

"Are we good now brother? Have I been sufficiently scolded?" 

"No, not by a long shot. I phoned mummy." Said Mycroft. 

Sherlock groaned. "Why would you do that?"

"Because you are standing on a precipice and I cannot pull you back on my own!" The older Holmes said sharply. "We have agreed." He considered his brother's glare. "Rehab, three months." Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh. "And then school, you are going to university and you will make something out of yourself Sherlock or so help me." 

"You'll what? Sic your MI5 boys on me? Oh yeah that's right I know what you do." He shot.

"Do not try me on this one Sherlock, I assure you. You won't like the results."

Sherlock wanted to retort but he could see from his brother's eyes, there would be no wiggle room here. "Fine." He accepted. There would be other ways to find out who the boy in his dreams was... and the song.

"Good, remember. the east wind is coming, Sherlock." Said Mycroft.  

A cold shiver washed up the younger Holmes back and he closed his eyes. "Stop trying to scare me Mycroft, I'm not a child anymore."

"No, I see that now."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved the idea that Sherlock's drug use stems from the missing part of his life, so that's my motivation for this particular trip down the rabbit hole. Follow me on tumblr! the-angelsong
> 
> and please comment. I love your feedback! or message me...... seriously! I have no friends and a lot of free time lol, I would love to have a chat.


	5. Sex, Drugs and University.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock struggles with sobriety as some of his classmates decide to pull the wool over his eyes.

Dear god how do people take this? Thought Sherlock as he sat through another Chem lecture. 

It wasn't really that bad, the subject matter was actually quite interesting. But he was sober, and in class. The combination of events was intolerable. But Mycroft would be visiting this afternoon for his regular check in, and he would rather not face another tedious lecture from his dear brother. He distractedly tapped the rhythm for Mozart's concerto number 21 as he tried to take his mind off the craving for a cigarette. It was the one habit he had refused to kick in rehab. Since the visit, he had been very careful not to overdo his drug use, keeping his solution at a measly 5% that was as close to clean as he wanted to get.

"Hi there." Said a lilting Irish voice from his elbow. 

Sherlock tilted his head in surprise, most people around here had learned not to talk to him ages ago unless absolutely necessary, and even then, they didn't exchange pleasantries. "What?"

The speaker was a short thin girl with ivory skin, flaming red hair and, as he thought, an unfortunate smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. "Can I borrow a pen? Mines just gone." She replied, scribbling her ink less pen on a sheet of paper as proof.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and handed her his pen. "Keep it." 

"Thank you, that's kind." She replied shyly.

"It's not kind, I can see by your other pen you have an oral fixation and I'd rather not collect germs from your unconscious chewing." He explained flatly.

Much to Sherlock's surprise she laughed. "Good call, I can't guarantee that I haven't already chewed your pen."

Curious he turned to study her. Jeans; old, washed at least a hundred times, worn high on the hips. Not in fashion at all. Top; long sleeved, t shirt style neck band, red and clashing with her hair. Face; freckles, no makeup. Hair; brushed and pinned from her face. Books; plain with no decorations or drawings. 

She was a loner, didn't fit in with the crowd, but obviously smart. This university was expensive, based on her clothes she didn't have much money so must be a scholarship. 

He must have been staring for too long because she felt the need to speak. "I'm Caroline." She said holding out her hand.

"Sherlock." He replied, taking note of the pressure she used shaking his hand. Not enough to scream cocky, but definitely confidant.

"So.... Lambert's classes are dead boring aren't they." She tried.

_Oh, dear god! Small talk_ , he thought with an internal grimace. "Yes, I suppose so." He replied.

"Was that Mozart's 21st concerto you were playing before?" She tried again.

_Who are you_? "Yes, good ear." He replied.

"Thanks, I can't take all the credit though, that happens to be my da's favorite. He's a music professor."  Sherlock nodded in understanding. "Listen, I don't want this to sound forward or anything but... well, you seem to know your way around a microscope and I can't seem to retain anything Lambert says... do you think we can get some coffee after class so I can pick your brain? I can pay you."

"Why would I help you?" There was nothing malicious in his tone, he genuinely didn't understand what this girl was trying to achieve here. "There are plenty of tutors you could employ; Lambert's TA does tutoring sessions."

"Yeah, but I like you." She said batting her eyes.

"Why?" 

She sighed. "Because I do, will you help me?"

He mulled it over, it might help him stay sober till Mycroft's arrival. And she seemed harmless, if only a little bit of a curiosity. "Fine." He said and turned back to the lecture.

 

****

 

They found a quiet little coffee shop on campus and had settled into a booth. Caroline chose to sit next to him rather than opposite, and her proximity was making him uncomfortable.

"So," said Sherlock pointing to a diagram in his Chem book "In the presence of sunlight, alkanes react with bromine. What type of reaction is this?"

Caroline blinked at him. "Um."

Sherlock sighed and took a sip of his coffee. "It's really not that hard, think." 

She smiled up at him, "I was hoping you could teach me more about dopamine and adrenaline." 

He was confused for a moment, bio Chem wasn't scheduled until next term, but then she covered his hand with her own _. Oh, well, this is new.... what is this about then?_ No one had ever shown him the slightest interest in romance and he had certainly never pursued it before. _But it is interesting. I'm certainly lacking in knowledge on a practical level_ he reasoned. He understood the physicality of relationships, and she was a bit of an enigma. He had been puzzling her out for the past half hour. To many conflicts, perhaps this would clear it up. "Oh." 

She smiled coyly and leaned in towards him. "I know we just met, but, well, you're only in uni once and you might as well try new things."

He felt his heart rate increase as his breathing became shallow, _interesting_ , he thought. _It was a similar experience to the euphoria of cocaine coursing through the bloodstream_. He leaned into her. "True." He said softly.

She reached up and took his face in her hands. Leaning in till their lips were mere centimeters apart she let out a soft laugh. "As if!" She said pushing him away.

His brow furrowed in confusion and he was suddenly aware of laughter coming from all around him. He glanced around and saw the coffee shop had filled with his peers, one of whom was holding a camcorder pointed at the pair. "What?" He spluttered.

"So, what do you reckon Seb? Do you think we proved our hypothesis?" Asked Caroline, standing up and moving over to the man with the camera.

"Definitely, I'd say." The man laughed.

He was the butt of some kind of joke, Sherlock realized, a white-hot rage coursing through him. "And what hypothesis should that be Sebastian?" He asked coldly.

"All your little deductions and judgments about us, who's sleeping with who. You're jealous." He concluded.

Sherlock blinked in surprise. "Jealous, of what? You?" 

Sebastian smiled cruelly. Then it was his turn to be surprised as Sherlock started to laugh. "What's so funny."

"Do I really piss you off so much? You dress up your girlfriend in what? Probably her sister's old clothes and try to pimp her out to me to prove a point. That's rich, coming from you." He turned to Caroline. "Really I'm sorry you were caught up in all this but you really mustn't be so trusting. After all, a man capable of organizing such a deception on me must surely pull the wool over your ignorant eyes regularly." He turned back to Sebastian. "Should I tell her? I think so don't you.” He said with a waggle of his eyebrow. “Sebastian was with another woman's last night."

"No, he wasn't!" Caroline argued.

The man turned to his girlfriend putting his arm around her waist. "Don't listen to him, he's just trying to distract us."

"Nope." Said Sherlock popping the p on the word. "His clothes are rumpled from spending the night on the floor, we all know that he gets his shirts pressed regularly thanks to mummy and daddy's money, and he'd never usually go out in such unruly attire. Unless he got up late and didn't have time to change, and then there's his hair. Forget to pack your gel, did you? Oh well never mind at least you were lucky enough to have a collared shirt on to conceal the hickey on the left side of your neck. Bad form Sebastian, you should really tell your girlfriends not to mark you. It gives the game away too quickly. So yes, sorry, another woman."

"How did you know it wasn't me?" Said Caroline pulling away from her partner to look at the hickey.

"Proximity." Explained Sherlock. "You've been sitting close to me for the last half hour, I couldn't avoid your perfume if I tried."  

"So?"

"So, its recognizable, in fact its recognizably different to the one dear Sebastian here is wearing. Chanel no 5, isn't it? Caroline prefers Ralph Lauren, sorry you lose." He said faking a pout. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm late for lunch." With that he got up from the table and strode away without looking back.

_Well, that clears up that. Drugs are unequivocally better than sex. Won't be trying that again_. He thought to himself.

 

****

 

"What's upsetting you brother dear." Said Mycroft sitting down to lunch.

Sherlock scowled it didn't matter how hard he tried, his brother could always see right through him. "It's nothing, just classmates being dicks."

Mycroft murmured in understanding. "You must be better than them Sherlock, rise above it." 

Sherlock scoffed. "That is sometimes easier said than done." 

"Are you deducing them?"

"Of course."

"And are those deductions based on pertinent fact or are they designed to hurt?" Asked Mycroft.

Sherlock shot him a look in response.

The older Holmes let out a deep sigh. "As I suspected, your emotions do you a disservice brother mine. They cloud things and make you weak, susceptible to pain. It's time to put away childish things and grow up."

"What like you?" He replied sarcastically.

"Yes, of course. If I gave into bullies who hurt my... feelings." The word came out in a mocking tone. "I would never be able to do my job."

"And what is your job nowadays Mycroft? Are you running the British government yet?" 

"In a manner of speaking, yes. I have gotten very good at finding useful information that can turn things in my favor." Said Mycroft.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at his brother's unusual candor. "So, you've branched out into blackmail."

"No, I simply apply appropriate pressure when needed. Which I wouldn't be able to do if I had to contend with my emotions." He explained.

The subject matter was getting uncomfortable, Sherlock really didn't need a lecture on how to control his feelings right now, so he changed tact. "Have you put on weight?"

Mycroft's smile turned sour. "No, thank you, I've actually lost some."

"Are you sure? Oh well, must be middle age then, you're getting jowls."

"I see your listening skills have not improved any. How is school going? Are your classes going well?" He inquired.

"Other than the fact that I know more about the subject matter than most of the professors yes, I'd say it's going swimmingly." Said Sherlock confidently.

"Good, mother will be happy to know you are doing well." Said Mycroft. "Any new lists?"

It was the same question every week, without fail. Sherlock knew his brother was paying some of his classmates and teachers to keep an eye on him so he had, by necessity, learned how to keep his habits hidden. But to actually attend one of his brother's meetings high was pushing the boundaries a bit too far right now, so he continued to suffer through them in sobriety. "No, I'm clean."

Mycroft's smug smile returned. "good."

All Sherlock could think about the entire lunch was getting the meeting over with so he could go back to his room. He had been playing with some new chemical compounds and he was itching to see what effect they would have on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, thanks for reading. Not long now till our hero meets the girl. I seriously can't wait! 
> 
> I hope you are all enjoying the story so far, and please comment or message me if you have any ideas you think I should add. Your feedback sustains me! Also follow me on Tumblr @the-angelsong for more stories and general Sherlockian wonder. I'm really friendly and approachable and would love to chat with all of you!
> 
>  
> 
> PS if I get any of the London Englishy things wrong please correct me! I'm coming to you from the colonies so I could use a heads up with colloquialisms, google is getting such a work out from me ha ha.


	6. The Jealous Butcher

"I'm telling you, you have the wrong man!" Called Sherlock as the officers pulled him out of the police car and into the Scotland Yard headquarters.

They led him into a small interview room with a desk and some chairs and left him sitting on the small fold out chair. Minutes passed pushing him further and further to the edge of his patience. Finally, the door opened and an older man in a cheap suit and a young woman in uniform walked in. "You’re wasting time!" He shouted at them in exasperation. 

The man and woman ignored him, sitting opposite him at the desk. The man nodded and the woman pressed record on the tape player in the room. "Interview of suspect Sherlock Holmes commencing at 11:45 PM on the 7th of October 1999. Lead Detective Inspector Harvey is present, as is Sergeant Daniels." Said the woman and nodded to the man.

"Mr Holmes, I need to verify that you have been told your rights, and that you are aware of your entitlement to a lawyer before we start. Can you please give me verbal confirmation?" Said Harvey. 

"Yes, yes." Replied Sherlock with a wave of his hand. "I don't need one, I'm sure I could do a better job representing myself than any court appointed twat you bring in here." 

Daniels raised an eyebrow but didn't comment.

DI Harvey began to speak. "You have been pulled in here tonight under suspicion of murder-" 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course, I have, can't expect the bumbling idiots of Scotland Yard to do their jobs right."

"You were found at the scene with the victim's blood all over you-" 

"It was a few drops on my coat." Cut in Sherlock. "Sorry, wouldn't want you to mess this up for the tape." He added sarcastically.

"Am I to take that as an admittance of guilt?" Asked Harvey.

"Only if you're an idiot." 

"Mr Holmes." Said the older man sharply. "You are in serious trouble right now and you are not making things look any better for yourself with that attitude." 

"Good." Replied Sherlock with a half-smile. "If I was the killer I'm sure I would be quivering in fear right about now."

Sergeant Daniels spoke up. "So, you're denying any involvement?"

"You were found standing over the body of Sarah Mitchells with blood on your hands and clothes, how do you explain that Mr Holmes?"

"Yes, I was. Two hours after she died. I was examining her, that's how the blood got on my coat. I don't suppose it will come out now," he said with a sad look. "I loved that coat. I'll have to buy a new one now, I hate coat shopping.  It's the shoulders you see, very broad. It's hard to find a coat that fits me in the shoulders that I'm not swimming in everywhere else. I suppose I should really invest in multiples, alleviate this problem in the future."

"Mr Holmes!" Shouted DI Harvey.

"What? If you're going to waste my time I might as well waste yours." 

"If you didn't kill her, why were you there? Why not phone the police when you found her?" Asked Sergeant Daniels.

"And leave it to you? God, you lot couldn't find a wet sock in a washing machine." He scoffed. "You found nothing the last time, and seeing that the killer has struck again, it was my civic duty to stop the culprit."

"The last time? What last time?" Asked Harvey.

Sherlock sighed, it was like teaching pre-schoolers. "Yes of course the last time, Ingrid Jenkins.... come on, I knew you were thick but you don't need to prove it."

"We caught Miss Jenkins killer." 

"Nope." Said Sherlock. "Once again, you have an innocent man. Honestly, you'd have better luck picking people out of a crowd. Statistically at least one of the people will have been naughty."

"Oh yeah, and what makes you think these cases are linked?" Asked Harvey.

"If I'm going to do your job for you I should ask for pay and benefits. Obviously, the cases are linked. Ingrid; 5"4, blonde, blue eyes, throat slit with a large blade, probably a hunting knife, found in an alley in central London. Sarah; 5"3 blonde, blue eyes, throat cut with a large blade, found in an alley in central London. Are you seeing a pattern yet?"

"But Ingrid Jenkins fought with her boyfriend on the night that she died, a man with a history of violence and a bloody knife in his flat." Argued the Sergeant.

"Yes, and very little blood. There was however noted in the pathology report, a rather large cut on Ingrid's hand. She cut herself on the knife, that's why there was blood on the knife and hardly any in the flat."

"He could have killed her somewhere else, after all she was found in the alley. He could have killed her there." Said the detective.

"What? And then gone to the effort of bringing the knife home with him only to forget to wash it? Come on! And she wasn't killed in the alley either, not enough blood. Use your brains." Spat Sherlock.

"Alright then smart arse, where did this 'serial killer' top them?"

"It takes three victims to be considered a serial killer and I'd really rather another woman didn't die just to prove a point." Said Sherlock exasperatedly. "In his van, of course."

"Van?" Asked Daniels.

"Yes, his van, the alley where Sarah Mitchells was found has construction next door, there was mud in the alley, and therefore tyre tracks."

"They could have been left by a delivery driver earlier in the day." Suggested the Sergeant.

"Dear god, if you must open your mouth, hum. It will certainly have more validity than anything you contribute. There was heavy rain this afternoon, rain that would have washed away any tyre prints from the day. These were left tonight, when the killer was dumping Sarah's body." 

"Alright!" Shouted Harvey before Daniels could start reacting to the young man's comments. "Okay, so, let me get this straight. You didn't kill her, you were investigating her death because she and Miss Jenkins had similarities. How did you know about the similarities? How did you know about the cut on her hand? You said you read it in the pathology report. That's not possible, you’re not allowed access to that." 

"My curiosity was peaked at the trial of the first victim's boyfriend. The evidence seemed circumstantial at best. So, I looked into it more, it's not hard to gain access to pathology reports if you know he right people." 

"What were you doing at the trial?" Asked the Sergeant.

"I was bored." Explained Sherlock. "After looking through the evidence I could see that the killer would strike again and worked out his likely dump site, when I arrived, I found Miss Mitchells." 

"How could you possibly know he would pick that alley?" Scoffed the DI

"Obvious, the alley is a dead end in central London, large enough to drive a van in. It's adjacent a construction site, which would be empty at night, so no potential witnesses there. The businesses on the other side don't operate at late night hours so no onlookers there either. If someone did happen to look down the alley, they wouldn't notice a delivery van parked there. The only lighting comes from the Main Street that connects the alley, and with the van reversed in and parked it would completely hide the killer from view. It's far enough away from busy thoroughfares to avoid late night pedestrians and other types who would frequent London alleys, and the homeless population have been moved on by police recently. So, that's how I knew he would pick that alley." 

There was a moment of silence as the police officers processed what the young man had said. Eventually, in a stuttering voice the DI asked. "What can you tell us about the killer?"

"The killer is a delivery driver for a local butcher, probably late thirties. Obviously unattractive. Poor social skills, and existing anger problems. He will have priors, probably assault and sexual assault. He may have gone to prison for them but that's unlikely, misdemeanors more likely. A frequent drinker who still lives with his mother and has never managed to maintain a relationship."

"You got all that from some tyre treads in the mud?" Asked the DI in amazement.

"Obviously." He replied smugly. 

"How do we know that you’re not just making all this up? How could you possible know all that." Argued Daniels.

An eye roll wasn't sufficient enough in this case, so instead Sherlock let his whole head roll in exasperation. "He has a van, with balding tyres, it gets a lot of wear from his many deliveries. Therefore, delivery driver. How do I know it's for a butchery? He kills them in the van, so he must work in an industry where nobody would notice pints of blood all over the floor, butchery. And there's the throats, cleanly sliced with a large blade, so someone who knows about blades and how to slice meat. But the drinking has given him a tremor in his hand. The victim's wound was ragged at one end, as he cuts into them his hand shakes."

"What about living with his mum? How could you know that?" Asked the DI.

"Or that he's ugly?" Added the Sergeant.

"Because if he had any luck with women he wouldn't need to attack them would he." Explained Sherlock like a fed-up teacher. "He meets the victims at bars, Ingrid Jenkins had a fight with her boyfriend so she went out to blow off some steam, Sarah Mitchell's was dressed in club clothes. Single women, similar in appearance, out on their own.... exactly his type. He would have approached them at the pub, and grown enraged when they rejected him. So, he waited for them to leave and took them."

"But there was no sign of sexual assault on Jenkins, and you said the killer would have priors for sexual assault." Argued the Sergeant.

"Well no of course not, they rejected him, this is about revenge." He explained.

"So how do we catch him?" Asked the DI.

"He'll be on a high now, after just completing his second murder, and the night is still young. He'll be out celebrating. Somewhere near the alley. Not close enough to see it, but close enough to maintain the high. But he would have needed to clean up first, throat slitting is messy business, there's no way he would be able to hide it. He must keep a change of clothes in the van. And he'd want to hose out the van. He's a delivery driver so he would have keys to the butchery." _Think Sherlock_! He told himself, _where would he be?_ "Oh, there’s a dingy pub on Cross street, two blocks from the alley. It's been," he checked his watch. "Three hours since the murder, plenty of time to get cleaned up and head back out, that's where he is!" He exclaimed.

"But how will we know who he is?" Asked the Sergeant.

"Boots! He's an alcoholic who lives with his mother, he probably only has one pair. There'll be bloodstains on his boots, blood from both victims." 

"Right," said DI Harvey to Sergeant Daniels. "Call it in, have a couple plain clothes officers go for a look."

The Sergeant nodded and ran out of the room.

"So, am I free to go now?" Asked Sherlock.

"Hang on a minute, you still interfered with a crime scene, and we don't even know if what your saying is true. You can just settle in here till your story checks out." Said the detective.

Sherlock slumped in his chair, making himself more comfortable. "Fine, I'll take a cup of tea, white two sugars thanks."

The detective shook his head, but went to fetch the man his drink.

After the man left the room Sherlock stared into his reflection in the mirror on the wall. This had been.... exhilarating, it was always fun to play his deductions game, and he'd dabbled crime on both sides of the line. But never, had he gotten the police on his side before. The way he had commanded the room, his superiority. Proving he was right had always left a sour taste in people's mouth, but this? This was... incredible. 

He wondered if he would get the chance to do this again, work with the police that is. It was so much more fun leading them along than solving the crimes in his head and calling to tip them off. Was this it? Had he found his calling?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so begins, Sherlock's love of crime solving, and his new found friendship with Scotland Yard.
> 
> If you like what I'm writing please let me know. Follow me on Tumblr @the-angelsong


	7. A Good Coat for a Funeral

They had kept him at the station for hours, detective Harvey had been hesitant to let him go without proof that they had caught the real killer.

Thankfully the man had folded reasonably quickly, once the bloodstained boots were confined as containing human blood. 

He was bitterly cold. They had kept his jacket. Sherlock supposed he could have taken a cab back to his brother's house, but after being stuck in that small room with no company for so long he was hesitant to put himself into another confined space. So, he had walked, the journey taking little over an hour in the cool October air.

He wished he could say he was surprised to see the lights on in Mycroft's small flat. Of course, his brother had heard about his arrest, however ridiculous it was. And of course, he would be ready with some kind of lecture about staying out of trouble. If it wasn't for the cold setting into his bones, he might just have kept walking. He let out a resigned sigh and headed inside.

Mycroft was characteristically sitting in his favorite chair in the dining room, but, Sherlock noticed with a furrow of his brow, he was uncharacteristically pale. "Mycroft? What's happened?" He asked stepping unsurely into the room.

It took an awful lot to shake his brother, and he looked shocked to his core. Mycroft blinked and cleared his throat. "Sherlock sit down, please."

Slowly Sherlock lowered himself into the adjacent seat. His brain working at a thousand miles per hour, something was seriously wrong. His fingers were prickling with the dark tension in the air. "Who died?" He asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Mycroft gave him a sad smile in reply to his deduction. "Uncle Rudy was found late last night. He suffered a heart attack from which he did not recover."

Sherlock felt a wave wash over him, like the air suddenly turned stale. "I'm so sorry Mycroft. Are you alright?" 

"I'm fine, naturally. And you?" Said the older Holmes, doing his best to look disinterested. They might as well have been talking about the weather.

Sherlock had of course experienced death, hell he was less than three feet away from it the previous evening. But the death of a family member was unique, something he had not encountered before. He quickly combed through his thoughts and feelings. The only one that sat higher than the others was the concern he felt for his big brother. "Me, I'm fine. I worry about you, I know you were close to the man."

"Yes, he was training me to take over his role in office, I suppose my training is done now."

Sherlock nodded in understanding, he knew he would see even less of his brother now. "Who's arranging the funeral?"

Mycroft face twisted into a bitter smile. "Uncle Rudy of course. He had everything planned years ago, ever the organizer."

"Right." Sherlock was uncomfortable... emotional reactions were, by and large, a useless endeavor that should always be suppressed. It was a constant war he fought beneath the surface. "Well then, I've had a long night. I'm going to have a bath and then I need to purchase a new coat."

"What happened to your old one?" Mycroft inquired, raising an eyebrow.

Sherlock grinned. "It's in an evidence bag at Scotland Yard."

Mycroft sighed and bought his hand up to cradle his head. "Why?"

"Oh," said Sherlock as he headed for the stairs, "it got a bit of blood on it from a crime scene I happened upon last night." 

"What crime scene?" Asked Mycroft rising from his chair to follow his brother. But he was too late, Sherlock had already reached the top of the stairs and disappeared from view. "Sherlock?" 

No response. Mycroft pulled out his mobile and checked his messages to see what trouble his little brother had gotten himself into this time.

 

 

****

 

Sherlock turned, trying to find an angle in the mirrors to see his back. He was wearing a forest green wool coat. "No." He said, upon seeing where the coat ended at the bottom of his torso. "It shortens me, and the color isn't right. Have you got anything else?" He asked the attendant.

"Well sir, we did get a lovely blue belstaff in just this morning." He suggested.

"Blue?" What was wrong with traditional black? He had already tried a russet brown, green, and maroon coat on and none of them were right. He sighed, the task seemed impossible. "Fine, let’s see it."

The man hurried off to grab the coat. It was large, a bundle of midnight blue wool, so dark it was close to black. The attendant held it out so Sherlock could slip it on.

It fit perfectly, snug on his shoulders whilst not restricted his movement, tapering down his waist before billowing out to end at his knees. The color brought out the blue in his eyes. It was nice, very nice. Warm enough for those long winter nights but still thin enough to allow maximum mobility. Yes, this was THE COAT, for him. He turned to the man, "I'll take five please."

"Five?" The attendant spluttered. "But we only have the one in stock, this is a tailor, we don't make duplicates."

"Today you will." Said Sherlock removing the coat and handing it to him. "I want five, exactly the same, feel free to keep this one for the day if you need the measurements, oh and while you’re at it, add a couple invisible pockets on the inside will you."

"But sir, I-" he started 

"You know who my brother is yes? From what I understand he almost exclusively shops here, and based on the average cost of your items, if he were to suddenly stop..."

The attendant sighed. "When would you like them to be ready?" He asked resignedly.

Sherlock smiled. "I don't care, but I would like one of them ready within two days, I have a funeral to get to and I need a good coat."

"Very good sir, and will you be paying at collection?"

"Nope, I'll pay for them all right now if you don't mind." Said Sherlock pulling a black credit card from his pocket.

The man rang up the sale. "The total of the current coat plus alterations and the commission fee of the other four, plus materials bring your total up to £8,645 is that on credit sir?"

"Yes." Replied Sherlock handing over the card. 

The man looked at the name on the card and Sherlock raised an eyebrow in a warning not to mention it. The man gulped and put through the sale, when it came time for Sherlock to sign, he provided an excellent forgery of Mycroft Holmes hand. "I'll be back in two days to collect my coat, please call me on this number," he said writing down his mobile number, "if it's ready before then." 

 

****

 

The funeral was small, with only direct family in attendance. Rudolf Holmes had been a hardworking man, some might even say cruel. He had not made many friends in his life. Those he had, he held in the highest regard and looked after them accordingly in his will. 

Mycroft apparently, had the highest praise. With the deceased man bestowing a large sum of money as well as his manor on the man. 

Sherlock was taken care of as well. Their uncle was, considerably wealthy at his time of death. His money however was to be held in trust by Mycroft until his 30th birthday. Any irritation Sherlock felt by his brother's control was alleviated when he recalled the black credit card he had in his wallet. If Mycroft was to control his finances, then he could use them to pay back the debts Sherlock racked up on his brother's card.

The only moment of real interest during the reading of the will was the sealed envelope bequeathed to Mycroft. Sherlock longed to know what was inside, whatever it was it would surely be good. Mycroft had gone quite grey when it was handed to him. But he would need to bide his time, to find out the envelope's contents, Mycroft's vice like grip on it would ensure that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short bridging chapter, I'm not very happy with this one, but oh well. The next chapter should hopefully make up for it so stay tuned for that one.
> 
> Let me know how I could improve this chapter, and what you want to see more of. is there a certain scene you've had in your head from Sherlock youth but you cant be bothered writing yourself? let me know, it might work in with what I'm doing. We're getting close now to Sherlock first meeting with some of the characters from the show. Lestrade will be making an appearance soon. and Mrs Hudson, and of course, my favorite Character of all time.... Doctor Molly Hooper will be coming on the scene soon. I'm so excited to write it!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who comes back to read my new chapters and comment. I Love You!!!!
> 
> PS follow me on Tumblr @the-angelsong


	8. Fried Tobacco

 

Mycroft scowled as he stepped out of the luxurious town car and looked up at the first apartment he owned in the city. He had moved to his uncle's manor six months ago, and Sherlock had elected to stay in the flat. Mycroft had thought it might be good for his brother, living on his own. He hoped it would force him to grow up some. He had been wrong.

As he opened the door his senses were overwhelmed by the stench of cigarette smoke and ash, burning his eyes and choking his lungs. He rubbed his eyes to clear them before removing his coat and hanging it on the peg by the door.

There was loud operatic music coming from the kitchen masking his steps as he made his way through the small home he was once so proud of. Books and papers covered every surface, piled haphazardly in teetering columns. His dining table was now home to lab equipment, something acrid smelling bubbling away in a beaker. 

As he rounded the corner he found his younger brother. Dressed in long silk pyjama pants and one of his old dress shirts that was obviously too big for the younger man. Sherlock was holding a fencing foil and appeared to be attempting to fight a replica statue of the Venus de Milo. 

"Mycroft! Just in time, pull out your umbrella and let’s have a proper match, this one is rubbish." He said grinning. "No offence." He added leaning into the statue like it was a real person.

"No, brother dear it's time to put down your foil, we need to talk." Said Mycroft studying his brother closely.

Sherlock shrugged and stabbed the sword into the floor, turning to show his brother to the chairs. He flopped down into the dark leather one slumping into a comfortable position. Then he gestured to the chair opposite him for Mycroft.

The older Holmes looked down at the chair, his lip curling back in disgust. There was a lit cigarette sitting in an ashtray on the arm that appeared to be untouched by his brother, like he had simply lit it, put it down and forgot about it. A stack of papers covered the seat. "Sherlock, can you turn off-" he started.

"What? I'm sorry you'll have to speak up!" Shouted Sherlock over the music, which seemed to be reaching the crescendo portion. "I can't hear you over the music."

"Yes well, perhaps you could-" 

"Hold on, I'll turn it off." Said Sherlock as he jumped up from his chair and practically skipped to the kitchen.

Mycroft used the time to clear the chair with his umbrella, and moving the ash tray to an end table next to him. He sat down stiffly.

"So, what's up bro? You didn't stop by to borrow a cup of sugar I'm sure." Said Sherlock sliding back into his spot.

"I'm not sure you would be able to find any if I were." Mycroft quipped looking around the dirty room. "Why do you have a series of lit cigarettes burning around the room?"

"It's an experiment," grinned Sherlock, "I'm studying the differences in the ash from various types of tobacco. They burn differently producing varying amounts of carbon, I can already recognise forty different types of tobacco by sight from the ash."

"A helpful skill I'm sure." Said Mycroft sarcastically.

"It is, I helped Harvey with a case just last month that would have been solved a lot quicker if I had known at the time which tobacco the killer smoked." He countered.

"So, you’re still doing that, are you? Helping the police when they get stuck." 

"Like you didn't know, I'm sure you have your little spies inside Scotland Yard keeping tabs on me." Said Sherlock plucking a piece of paper up to play with the fold.

"True, I have to say it's nice to see you frequenting the place without an arrest warrant."  He replied brushing some ash off his pant leg.

Sherlock smiled and tossed the paper behind his head. "It's the beginning of a new era." He said proudly before straightening up in his chair to look directly at his big brother. "But I know you didn't come here for a chat, you don't make social calls. So, what do you want?"

"Your housekeeper quit, again. This is the third one in a month, though by the state of this place I'm not surprised." He said looking around in disgust. "She said you pointed a gun at her?"

Sherlock let out an over the top sigh. "It wasn't loaded."

"That's not the point Sherlock, you cannot point a firearm at the staff." Replied Mycroft in frustration.

"Well, you tell her not to touch my experiments then! She ruined all my data." 

"She washed your dishes." 

"No," said Sherlock crossing his arms, "she destroyed a sensitive Eco system that took months to cultivate."

"It was mold, stop being churlish." Snapped Mycroft. "Where is it?"

"Where's what," he replied feigning ignorance.

"The gun Sherlock, where is it?" Mycroft watched his brother closely for the right reaction that would give it away. There it was! Sherlock's eyes had flicked ever so slightly to the bookcase by Mycroft's shoulder. "Thank you." He replied standing up and walking over. He studied the books for a moment, looking for the one that hid the weapon. Ah of course, Sherlock's first chemistry textbook. He remembered how much his brother had complained when he read the book. The book's simplicity and idiotic examples had provided hours of material for the younger Holmes to contradict. He had called it a useless waste of paper. "I see you finally found a use for your old school books." He said opening the cover. Inside the meticulously cut pages he found the firearm, and a box of bullets.

"Yes well, nice show Mycroft but it's hardly difficult for me to obtain another one, is it?" The younger Holmes retorted.

"And how would Detective Inspector Harvey react if he found an unregistered weapon on your person hmm? I can't imagine your," his lip curled up at the word, "services, would be required after that."

Sherlock stood up and angrily stomped to his brother, snatching the hollowed out book from his hands. "They need me!"

Mycroft raised his hands, still holding the unloaded gun and ammunition, in surrender. "Oh, so you're smarter than the entire Scotland Yard, are you?"

"Is that really a stretch?" 

Mycroft smiled cruelly. "No, I suppose not. But if you insist on wasting your sizeable talents on a useless endeavour perhaps you can take a look at something for me." 

"And there it is." Replied Sherlock waving his hands and spinning around. He walked back to his chair and flopped down. "I knew this was about something more than the stupid housekeeper."

"Yes," replied Mycroft returning to his own seat, "although, if you continue to go through staff at the rate you are I will stop employing them."

"Good, fine. I don't need them anyway." Said Sherlock dismissively.

"That is an argument for another time I think." Replied Mycroft.

Sherlock groaned. "Do get to the point brother mine, I do have things to do today."

"I'm sure," he replied looking around the dirty flat, "some sensitive documents have been removed from one of our offices that contain information we'd rather not disclose to third parties. An informant has told us that these documents are to be sold on the black market next Thursday. I need you to go in and obtain them."

"Why me? Get one of your spies to do it. I'm busy." 

"Until we find the leak all operations are suspended for the immediate future..." Sherlock had pulled his violin out and was distractingly plucking at the strings to tune it. "... I need you Sherlock, to get the documents and find out who our leak is."

Sherlock stopped plucking and looked up in contemplation. "No"

"No?"

"You do it, I'm sure you could figure it out, after all, I'm sure you've eliminated yourself as the leak." He said going back to plucking the strings. He was deliberately de tuning the instrument, knowing the off-key sound would irritate his brother greatly.

Mycroft smiled as he tried to endure the heinous noise issuing from the violin. "My talents lie in planning and organisation, you are the expert in ground work brother."

Sherlock stopped plucking. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"You can if you like."

He stared down his older brother, both trying to outlast the others resolve. "Fine, but you owe me a favour." 

"One I'm sure you'll cash in quickly." 

 

****

 

One phone call and a well-made disguise and Sherlock had made it to the meeting. He was dressed as a waiter in a small cafe on the outskirts of the city. As he refilled the sauce bottles he ran through the plan again. The agent had made a good choice in venues, there was only two exits, the back one conveniently blocked with a large pipe Sherlock had found lying in the adjacent alley. 

The front was a small glass door next to the large windows, well, the windows would do as an exit in a pinch but hopefully it wouldn't come to that. The booths were small, allowing two men on each bench so the agent could be assured he wouldn't be too outnumbered. How he would fair in the scene would depend on the agent.... was he a field agent, or an office clerk? That was yet to be determined.

He would choose a booth by the window, allowing transparency to the public. That would ensure the only weapons available would be small enough to be concealed.... hand guns probably, easier to manoeuvre then a knife. Although, at least one of the buyer’s goons would likely be carrying a blade. The buyer will probably come with three men. One to sit next to him as they make the exchange, another to box in the agent. And a third standing out front to prevent escape.

Sherlock would need to identify they agent and his buyer before preventing the sale. Step one: incapacitated the goons inside the cafe. Step two: collect documents. Step three: exit building whilst evading the third goon. It seemed simple enough, but it all depended on the agent. If it was a field officer, he would know how to defend himself, and his package. The buyer was less concerning. His goons handle most of the heavy lifting, with them incapacitated, he would likely allow the theft rather than risk his own neck.

He checked his watch, according to Mycroft's informant he had little over seven minutes until the meet. He had to assume the agent would know what he was doing and prepare for the worst possible outcome. Sherlock would have felt slightly better if Mycroft had returned his gun, he had not been able to acquire another one in the short time frame.

He quickly scanned the room. It was mid-afternoon so there was only a few people milling about. An old couple nursing their milky tea, and a young factory worker who had just been put off and was contemplating the pub across the street.

They were all up the other end of the diner and as far from the danger zone as he could manage. Sherlock closed his eyes and waited for the agent.

* **ding** * went the bell above the door, he opened his eyes and spotted the agent as he slid into the booth closest to the door. "Right on time," he muttered softly under his breath, "now, let’s get a look at you."

The agent was short, 5 4" at most, he hated being short and did everything in his power to appear taller. This was evident by the 2" lifts on the soles of his shoes. Suit; of middling expense, could be the suit of a thrifty field agent except.... no, this didn't fit him right at the shoulders, and the pants had been cheaply hemmed up to fit the shorter legs of the man. This was a second-hand suit. His hair was cut short, nothing remarkable about that, it looked by necessity. Short hair required no maintenance, no product. It could be a field agents cut, Sherlock supposed, he needed more data.

Pen and order book in hand he confidently walked up to the shorter man. "What can I get you?" He asked, studying the agent. He smelled like soap, plain with no added aroma. Sherlock couldn't discern any deodorant, so it was unlikely the man was used to physical activity. Probably more likely to work in a temperature controlled office. This was all adding up, only one more thing to check.... and there it was, the final nail in the coffin so to speak. The man's fingernails were chewed down to the quicks. Office clerk, obviously, and he was nervous, his right thumbnail still showed traces of saliva from where he had been chewing on it moments before entering the cafe.

"Sorry what?" Asked the man looking up at Sherlock. "Oh, um. Just tea thanks." He replied, his left hand reaching out protectively to rest on his briefcase.

"Coming right up sir." Replied Sherlock writing down the man's order and heading back to the counter.

So, office clerk, good. That would make things easier. He had just poured the hot water into the teapot when the bell above the door sounded again.

***ding***

He glanced over at the new arrivals, careful not to stop prepping the tea. The thin man in the bespoke suit was obviously the buyer, he looked sour, like the general smell of the cafe was offending his senses.

The buyer was flanked by two large men in reasonably priced suits. The suits looked uncomfortable and restrictive. Good, he thought, I can use that. 

Sherlock had just finished putting the agent's tea on the tray as the men slipped into the booth. As expected, the buyer first, with one of his goons sitting next to him and the other sliding on next to the agent. He picked up the tray and his order book and pen and headed over to them. As he rounded the counter he caught the slightest glimpse of the third goon. Standing to the right of the cafe, concealed by the wall. Well, that's easy.... just go left, he thought, smiling as he reached the booth. "Your tea, sir." He said placing the tray down and moving the items to the table. "Can I get you gentlemen anything?"

The buyer and his goons ignored him. "Alright then.... sing out if you change your mind." Said Sherlock, collecting the tray. He moved back to the counter pulling out his mobile phone.

Phones equipped with cameras had only come out in the past six months, and Sherlock found it endlessly pleasing. He no longer had to wait for photos to be developed and sent, or discreetly passed to him on the street. No longer did he have to wait tedious seconds as the images downloaded onto his computer. Now with a touch of a button, he could snap the four men and transmit the photo instantly to his brother. 

He held up the phone looking bored as he pretended to text. After making sure the sound and flash was off, he took a couple of snaps and sent them to Mycroft. His brother's reply came quickly: _very good, get the plans. Extraction in 5. -MH_

He was quickly devising how to separate the goons for his divide and conquer plan when he looked up to find he didn't need to. The goon who was sitting next to the buyer had gotten up and was standing at the counter in front of him. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Whatchoo got your phone for?" Asked the man with a thick south London accent.

"Sorry?" Replied Sherlock.

"Your phone, that's one of them camera phones idnt it? Whatchoo got that out for? Taking pictures?" The goon asked menacingly.

"Just texting my girlfriend, what's it to you?" Replied Sherlock, squaring up in preparation for the imminent fight.

"Is that so, give us a look then." Said the man snatching at the phone.

Sherlock let him have it, he had no need for it now. Instead he used the time to grab the kettle, which was still sitting on the counter from when he made the agent's tea moments ago.

While the goon was distracted, his large fingers mashing the buttons. Sherlock cleared his throat. The goon looked up just in time to see the freshly boiled water hit his face. He let out a scream as the liquid burned his eyes, blinding him and lashed out, his hands searching for Sherlock. 

He dodged the man's hands easily, reaching back to grab a bacon greased frypan from the stove. He waited a half second for the goon’s centre of gravity to adjust, throwing himself off balance in his attempt to get to the young waiter. Before bringing the pan down in a sweeping motion. When the pan hit the man's head it made a sick thud, spinning him round before he dropped to the floor blinded and unconscious. One down, thought Sherlock as he looked up to the other men.

The second goon was already standing and making his way over to the counter. The buyer and the agent we still in the booth, the buyer pointing a gun at the nervous man's face. Sherlock would need to move quickly to intercept the files.

He vaulted over the counter, moving quickly towards his new assailant. The goon pulled his hand out of his pocket to reveal a switch blade. Oh good, thought Sherlock, he was hoping the first goon was the one with the gun. 

Statistically, knives in a physical combat scenario are far more likely to work against the wielder than for. The user tends to concentrate on the blade rather than their own body. This was the case for the goon. He swung wildly trying to reach Sherlock before he had gotten close enough to hit. As Sherlock side stepped the swing, he used the goon's momentum to twist him round. The man's uncentered stance gave out, making him teeter. Before the man could recover, Sherlock swung the pan down sideways on the back of the man's head. The tapered force of the side of the frypan rendering the man instantly unconscious.

Two more steps and he was at the booth, here's where it got dangerous. The buyer had a gun, which was now trained on the young Holmes, his other hand rested on the briefcase. The agent was frozen in terror, his eyes darting between the two men. 

The frypan, whilst proven effective against the buyer’s men, would do little to stop a bullet. Sherlock threw the pan at the buyer, darting to the left to grab the half empty sauce bottle from the table. The buyer recovered from the pan just in time to see the sauce shoot out towards him. The unstoppable flinch was all Sherlock needed to relive the man of his weapon. 

With the gun cocked and pointed at the thin man, he made no attempt to move as Sherlock calmly reached over the table to collect the briefcase. "Well, this was fun. Let’s do it again sometime." Said Holmes casually as he backed away from the table. His eyes shifted to the agent. "You have less than two minutes, I estimate. You'd better run." 

The agent nodded and quickly slid of the booth, running for the door. Sherlock counted to five before turning and strolling out after him. He smiled as he watched the agent cross the street, pursued by the third man, and calmly walked to the curb. The car Mycroft had sent for extraction pulled up just as he reached the end of the pavement and he opened the door, hopping in.

Mycroft was of course sitting inside, calmly checking his watch. "You have the files I trust."

Sherlock handed him the briefcase. "Your agent ran that way," he said pointing in the direction the short man had ran, "I suggested you have someone pick him up before his buyer's friends do."

"Why?" Said Mycroft opening the case. "They'll take care of the hard work for us."

"Cold, brother, cold. Your men would incarcerate the leak. They buyer's men will kill him."

"That's strange." Said Mycroft.

"What's that?" Asked Sherlock.

"I didn't think you would care." He replied with a smirk.

"I don't." Argued Sherlock. "But murder is messy and I'd rather not get a phone call from the police to help them solve this one."

Mycroft patted his brother's knee reassuringly. "You needn't worry brother mine, my field agents are extracting him as we speak. I'll send someone to the cafe to clean up in a moment."

"I wasn't worried." Said Sherlock, irritably moving his leg out of his brother's reach. "What's was he selling anyway? I risked my life for this information, I should at least get to see what it's for." He asked, his hand reaching out towards the papers in the briefcase.

Before he could snatch out anything Mycroft closed the lid firmly. "Oh, nothing you need concern yourself with."

"Well, don't forget you owe me a favour now." 

Mycroft let out a soft laugh. "I'm sure you'll come up with an interesting way to cash it in."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was so fun to write! I hope you all enjoyed this little case fic. 
> 
> Please comment, praise sustains me and criticism makes me a better writer. Also, follow me on Tumblr @the-angelsong for updates and general Sherlock related content.


	9. The Crack in the Lens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> once again Sherlock looses the battle against sobriety

Mycroft's phone chirped sharply in his pocket. He answered it sharply. "Did you find him?"

"Not yet sir, but we think we've narrowed it down to a hole in the wall in Westminster." Came the hurried response.

"Call me when you have him." He said, snapping the flip phone closed and sitting down at his desk.

_It had to be today didn't it?_ He thought as he rubbed his tired eyes. His brother always had such a knack for finding the most inopportune moments and exploiting them. So of course, it would be today. Sherlock hadn't left his flat in weeks, but today, he decides to go for a wander and loose his surveillance.

Mycroft glanced down at his diary. **Sherrinford, 2pm** was circled on today's date. It was almost one and his team was no closer to locating his wayward brother. Today's visit would need to be cancelled. As frustrated as he was at Sherlock's constant need to shake his surveillance team, he couldn't help being ever so slightly relieved that he wouldn't have to see her today. She made him feel....... inadequate.

Mycroft shook his head to clear it, back to the matter at hand. He stood up and grabbed his coat, pulling out the phone to call his driver. His team would locate Sherlock soon enough, he might as well get ready for it.

 

****

 

_Sherlock gasped at the detail as he looked around the large foyer, it was so real. He had spent time in his mind palace before of course, but this particular mix of cocaine, rohypnol and LSD made the experience.... effervescent._

_"Hello!" He called marvelling as the sound bounced and echoed off the marble columns. He turned to watch the specks of dust glittering in the sunlight that streamed through the large bay windows that stood on either side of the solid oak doors._ That's new, _he thought as he reached out to trap a particle in his palm._

_He heard the giggle of a child, coming from somewhere upstairs and went to investigate. At the top of the lavish staircase he came to a corridor, doors lining the walls at regular intervals. Behind the doors was his history, everything that made him what he was. He loved to comb through the rooms, reliving all those precious moments.  
_

_A door to his left opened and inside he could see Mycroft, at twelve years of age, carefully constructing a model plane. "Come play with me Sherlock." The young Holmes called._

_Sherlock smiled, he had so few happy memories of the two of them playing. This one, was his favourite. After they had put it together, Mycroft had let him paint it yellow and put a skull and crossbones on the side._

_Today was not the day to relive that moment however, so he reached out and shut the door. He continued down the long corridor noting all the rooms he passed. Some contained people, and moments in time. Others were a swirling vortex of information he had gleaned over the past twenty years._

_Bad memories, like most of his schooling experiences, were kept in locked rooms. He moved passed those ones quickly._

_Eventually he came to the end of the corridor. The door was locked and bolted with several deadbolts and a chain.... whatever as behind that door, Sherlock didn't want it to ever come out.  
_

_He heard the laugh again, coming from behind the thick wood and reached out in reflex for the handle. It was so cold it burned him. He snatched his hand back and stepped back to study it._

_The door was dark wood, it looked wet, and dank, black mold forming around the edges. Tentatively he placed his hand flat on the wood. It was cold, and wet, and-_

_"I wouldn't do that if I were you."_

_Sherlock turned to see Mycroft standing behind him. He was dressed in a bespoke suit and tie, an air of arrogance evident in the way he held himself._

_"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, surprised. This was his place, the home inside his mind. No one ever came here, no one ever talked to him here. In his mind palace, he was alone._

_"I'm here to stop you from doing something you will regret." Said Mycroft, tilting his head in disinterest. "Come away from that door."_

_"Why? What's behind it?"_

_Mycroft smiled his cold icy smile that seldom reached his eyes. "Do you really want to know?"_

_He felt cold, like his blood had turned to ice and was struggling to make its way round his body. "I, I don't...." he shook his head to clear it, his world sounded strange, almost like it was under water. "Why are you here?" He asked again._

_"Look at where you are brother, look around.... too deep Sherlock, too deep by far."_

_"I know what I'm doing Mycroft." He said, angrily pushing past the older man._

_"Do you? Why am I here Sherlock?"  
_

_"I asked you first." He retorted._

_"No," said Mycroft, his hands resting on that stupid umbrella Sherlock had bought him on a whim. "This," he lifted his hand to indicate the long corridor, "is not real. I'm not real, we are in your mind brother mine, and I am in your head because you put me here.... why?"_

_"I don't know!" He shouted stalking away. He got half way down the hall before Mycroft started to speak again. This time coming from an open door to his left._

_"Are you lonely? Perhaps you crave some company."_

_Sherlock laughed bitterly and kept walking, picking up his pace._

_"I am you Sherlock, and you can't run form yourself." He said from another open doorway._

_Sherlock stopped and turned to face him. "Why would I be running from myself?"_

_"Why indeed." Mycroft replied coyly._

_"I really hate riddles, come on then, you think you know everything, tell me."_

_"No, you, think I know everything.... that is why I'm here."_

_Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, do fuck off." He said walking away again. Instead of continuing down the hallway, Sherlock turned into one of the rooms._

_It was a grand ballroom, laid out as if a large party was imminent. Instruments set up on a small stage in the corner, sheet music softly flapping in the breeze._ Why is there a breeze? _He thought to himself, his brow furrowing._

_"Are you going to continue with this farce?" Said Mycroft from the middle of the room._

_"What farce?" Asked Sherlock as he moved to the windows, they were closed and locked tightly._ Where was this breeze coming from?

_"You getting yourself into this state out of boredom." Said Mycroft, pulling up his collar as the breeze turned colder. "Are you still so blind to see the reason for all this?"_

_Sherlock shivered, wishing he had his coat on. "If you are implying that I did all this in some desperate act of loneliness you are mistaken. Emotions are useless and unnecessary. I choose not to let them affect me."_

_"Do you? Because I rather thought you found them overwhelming."  
_

_"Oh," he said moving to the doors to find the wind had disappeared before them. He took three steps back into the room, and the breeze returned._ Curious... _. "and what gave you that impression?"_

_"Look around brother mine, look at what you created.... a world of beauty and luxury, a ball just about to start, rooms filled with moments of love and affection. But always alone, always empty." He said sadly._

_"I'm not alone, I have you." Said Sherlock coming up to stand in front of his brother._

_"And you always will brother, do not forget that." He held out his hand. "It's coming to an end now; did you make a list?"_

_Sherlock sighed and retrieved the scrap of paper from his pants pocket, placing it in his brother's outstretched hand.  
_

_"You went too far this time, Sherlock. I'm beginning to think it's intentional." Sherlock raised his eyebrow at the older man but said nothing. "This place is beautiful, naturally. But do you really want to die here?"_

_"I don't want to die." Said Sherlock backing away._

_"Don't you?"_

_His head was swimming and he struggled to breathe, as he collapsed to the cold marble floor. "No!"_

_"Remember brother mine, in here I am you.... I know why you come here."_

_"I.... don't.... want.... to... die." He cried between ragged breaths. "I.... don't...-"_

 

***

 

"Want.... to... die." Said Sherlock from the soiled mattress he was lying on.

Mycroft sat next to him, gently rubbing his back. "I know, it's alright, I'm here now." He felt as though someone had just dropped a large block of ice onto his chest as he came to the realisation. Sherlock wasn't bored, he was suicidal. A tear formed in the corner of his eye and he blinked it away. "I will always be here for you."

 

****

 

_Well, this is familiar_ , Sherlock thought as he listened to the rhythmic beating of the heart monitor. The slight ruffle of paper and the sound of fabric sliding on fabric told him that Mycroft was there, sitting by his bedside as per usual. He contemplated going back to sleep to avoid the inevitable lecture he was sure to receive when he opened his eyes. But that would only delay it, Mycroft would stay by him until he awoke. _Let’s get this over with,_ he thought as he opened his eyes. "Hello Mycroft." He croaked, his throat felt like it was lined in sandpaper. "Come to lecture me on the dangers of narcotics?"

"Not this time brother mine." Said Mycroft handing him a glass of water.

Sherlock drank greedily handing him the empty cup to be refilled. "That's good then, you can leave now."

"I have done all I can to help you Sherlock, it's clear that my approach is.... ineffective." He said the last word bitterly.

"Well, what do you expect from a government surveillance team. They're easier to lose than a ten pound note at the dog races." He joked.

"Yes well, our parents-"

Sherlock groaned, "why do you insist on calling them Mycroft? Every time."

"Our parents," he continued, "have decided that I'm no longer fit to care for you."

"For god’s sake! I'm not a child, I don't need to be taken care of!" He snapped.

"No? You have no income whatsoever, the only home you have is one I pay for. You require a housekeeper to stop you living in filth. You don't eat. Oh, and you almost died yesterday from a frankly alarming amount of narcotics. Of course, you damn well need taking care of." Mycroft said angrily, his hands curled tightly around the pages he had been reading.

Sherlock sat sullenly back in the hospital bed.

"So," said Mycroft after he took a few breaths to calm himself. "When you are recovered from your little dalliance, you will be flying to America to stay with mummy and daddy."

"On their line dancing tour? Mycroft no! Send me to rehab, lock me up. Don't force me to endure that." He said desperately.

"Actions have consequences Sherlock, these are yours." He stood up and brushed the creases out of his suit. "I'm sure you will find a way of making the best out of it. I have some colleagues state side that could use your particular brand of investigating on some cases. If you behave yourself, I may introduce you. It might help alleviate some of the boredom."

"Your kindness is overwhelming." He responded sarcasm dripping from his words.

Mycroft smiled sadly and left the room, leaving Sherlock once again, alone with his thoughts.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure why, but I really enjoy writing Sherlock and Mycroft together. They have such an interesting dynamic.
> 
> Anyway, soon Sherlock will meet his future landlady, and I'm so excited to write that. i just need to think about how i want it to play out. 
> 
> if you have any suggestions message me here or on Tumblr @the-angelsong 
> 
> XO


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